Seventy Two hours.
That was how long it took for Jet's death to completely sink in for Longshot.
For some of the fighters, it hit them immediately, like a ton of bricks. Others, it took a bit longer, maybe an hour, two for them to actually believe he wasn't coming back.
But for most, it took something bad happened, until someone needed to take charge for reality to set in.
Smellerbee handled his death by crying, and she had cried a lot. Every time she was left alone to her thoughts, she would brake down all over again, just as the moment when she watched Longshot press his head against Jet's chest, her grip was tight on Jet's cold hand while Longshot listened for a beat, but soon found it absent.
Sneer's handled it by rejection, Blaming everyone else for giving up. He handled it with anger, as if Jet had chosen his horrid departure.
Pipsqueak didn't have time to cry or be angry, At all times there was a certain eight year old looking to him for comfort and example. And that was how he handled it, by comforting The Duke, which somehow seemed to comfort himself in the process.
But Longshot handled it with silence, None of the Freedom Fighters saw any change in him, except for Smellerbee, She could see the pain he was denying, He was trying to hold strong, but for once, Smellerbee wished he would crumbled. But he didn't. Not for the first day.
As the second day appeared, He stood solid, following his daily routines without a crack in his walls. Not a single blemish.
Smellerbee only watched and assumed he really wasn't going to break or cry, he wasn't going to bring it up, he wasn't going to show weakness. She was envious of how well he could just push the thought away; because no matter what she did, she couldn't forget.
But seventy two hours was all it took, It was the first day of the week-the third day since Jet had gone-,the day Longshot usually devoted to training, he and Jet had a special training range set up just for the two of them to meet and train with each other, sealed off far in the woods and secluded by trees. Jet was helping Longshot improve in hand to hand combat, for times when he couldn't use bow and arrows.
But now he was here, walking alone to the range. Once he arrived he wrapped up his hands in old bandages, and set aside his bow and quiver. He walked to the center of the small secluded area, and stood there, his fists raised, ready for his opponent to strike, He hopped from one foot to another, remembering to stay swift. But as three..four...five minutes had passed, no violent attempts had been made towards him, so he lunged at the tree closest to him and assaulted it with all of his might, throwing punches with muffled grunts and groans of anger until his fists poured with blood.
He beat at the tree until bark had broken away, leaving the trunk exposed, which was now stained with the red substance that was seeping through his bandages.
Suddenly Longshot dropped. His knees giving way to the unbearable weight that began at his shoulders but dropped to his stomach. He released a yell so loud that the birds perched above him scattered in fear. His face fell into his hands as harsh sobs escaped from him, he held nothing back, he was tired of being brave. He was tired of staying strong. He was tired of filling his own mind with the lies that Jet would come back, or everything would magically be okay. After ten minutes had passed he sat up and wiped his cheeks with his arm before propping both of his arms; one on each knee..
Longshot starred at the bloodstained tree, he hadn't noticed how awful his knuckles ached until now. But he didn't care. He only sat there, unmovable as he stared at the exposed trunk.
Right above Longshot's own head quietly sat Smellerbee, her back pressed against the trunk as she watched him. Her own cheeks stained with streaming tears.